The Case of the Gilded Fly by Edmund Crispin

some of your fool undergraduates messing about, Fen?’
    â€˜If it is,’ said Fen, rising in a determined manner, ‘they’re going to hear about it. You wait here, dear,’ he said to his wife, ‘and I’ll go and find out what’s happened.’
    â€˜I’ll come with you,’ said Sir Richard.
    â€˜Me, too,’ said Nigel ungrammatically.
    Fen’s wife nodded, and went on with her knitting. Wilkes said nothing, but stared absently at the dying embers of the fire. As they left the room, looking, as Nigel said afterwards, very determined and grim, Sir Richard took out his watch and turned to Nigel.
    â€˜What do you make the time?’ he said.
    â€˜8.24 exactly,’ said Nigel after a brief glance at his own.
    â€˜Right, We’ve been about a minute so far. 8.23 is near enough.’
    â€˜Aren’t you anticipating rather?’ asked Nigel.
    â€˜It’s as well to know,’ said the other briefly. And they followed Fen down the stairs.
    At the bottom they met Robert Warner, who was coming out of the lavatory with a ludicrously anxious expression on his face.
    â€˜What on earth was that din?’ he inquired. ‘Sounded like a shot to me.’
    â€˜That’s what we’re going to find out,’ said Fen. ‘I think I’m right in saying it came from in here.’
    The door of the sitting-room on their left, which had the inscription ‘Mr D. A. Fellowes’ in white over the top, was ajar. Fen pushed it open and they all followed him in. The room presented nothing of particular interest. Like most college rooms, it was scantily furnished, and the only unusual feature was a grand piano to the right of the doorway. To the left was a screen, intended presumably to trap draughts, which as Nigel well remembered tend to be numerous in the majority of college rooms, but a cursory glance failed to discover anyone or anything concealed behind it. Over by the far window, on the right, was a small flat-topped desk; a table with one or two uncomfortable chairs stood in the middle of a threadbare carpet; and the fireplace, over on the left, was flanked by a couple of chintz-covered armchairs. The only other item of furniture was an enormous bookcase, which contained on one of its shelves a few lonely looking volumes and on another a large pile of music, hymn-books, anthems and services. The walls, which were disagreeably panelled in dark oak, were scarcely relieved by a few very small reproductions of modern paintings, and in the dusk the general effect was one of profound gloom. But the room was typical of many such, and as it had no occupant, Donald Fellowes or any other, Nigel gave it no more than a brief glance, and hurried on after Fen and Sir Richard to the door in the wall opposite, which led to the bedroom.
    This also was ajar, and entering, they found themselves in a cold, comfortless, coffin-shaped room, furnished even more sparsely than the sitting-room they had just left. But for the moment they had eyes for none of the details.
    For beside the doorway stood a man, looking down at Yseut Haskell, who lay on the floor with a black hole in the centre of her forehead, and the whole of the top part of her face blackened and scorched.
    Like most people, Nigel had often tried to imagine how he would feel in the presence of violent death. Like most people, he had thought of himself as being calm, collected, almost indifferent. So the conscious part of him was totally unprepared for the sudden acute spasm of nausea which seized him at thesight of that motionless, lifeless form. He went quickly back to the sitting-room, and sat down with his face in his hands. Through the uncontrollable whirl of his thoughts and suspicions, he heard Sir Richard say, with a politeness which he remembered thinking excessive:
    â€˜Will you please tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?’
    It was a sensible homely voice which replied.
    â€˜Yessir,